


Your Gentle Ways Have Won Me

by Schwoozie



Series: And Baby Makes Four [4]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Baby Fic, Babysitting, In-Laws, Multi, POV Third Person, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 16:43:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4487031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hershel can accept Rick Grimes—sheriff, father, family man—as a son-in-law. But Daryl Dixon? Around Hershel's only granddaughter?</p><p>That one is a little harder to swallow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Gentle Ways Have Won Me

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd because I've given Mary a lot this weekend. And I want this up before the week begins.
> 
> The lullaby is "Gentle Annie," an old Irish folk tune. You can listen to it [here](http://www.irish-folk-songs.com/gentle-annie-lyrics-and-chords.html).

Hershel has had hard times. Between his father's tyranny, inheriting an entire farm before his second decade, losing not one but two wives as he sank to the bottom of the bottle...

He does not speak about it to others, because it is not their burden to bear. He knows that many of them have been through worse; and even if they have not, he has no right to complain. Not when he has been blessed with so much more than he was cursed with.

Until those blessings turned to curses. Until he cursed himself.

Beth was more than halfway through her pregnancy before Hershel started talking to her again.

And those were by far the worst months of his life.

* * *

Hershel watches Daryl watch Beth, a bemused expression on Daryl's face where he lounges across the couch, taking up space like a tiger, tail thrashed and growling.

The image of a tiger, of course, does not match his affect at all—small chuckles rumble from his throat as Beth dashes to and fro, gathering what she needs for her 24-hour shift at the hospital—but Hershel has always likened him to an animal. To some sort of beast. Rough hands, pitted cheeks, a menacing light in his eyes as he watches the world like a cat prepared to pounce. Younger than Rick, yes, closer to Bethy's age, if only marginally—but a man who curses profusely, and in a one-year-old child's hearing, at that. A man with a minimum level of education, working at a job with little chance at or ambition for advancement. A man with a past like Hershel's, but more unchained, more overt—at least Colonel Greene took care to hide the bruises, the scars. Daryl's stand out ugly on his skin; cigarette burns on his arms (and some, God save us, not nearly old enough to have been caused by his father), an uneven cheekbone, fingers knotted from multiple breaks. Any family that allowed their filth to fester in the open wouldn't wait long before spreading their disease.

Will Dixon's reputation was legendary in their town, that of his sons even more so. The old drunk; the loud-mouthed drug dealer; his quiet, knife-wielding shadow. There is a knife in the room now—half as long as Hershel's forearm, a knife made for gutting things, tearing. It sits on the top shelf of a half-empty bookcase and has not even gathered dust.

Hershel has known what kind of man Daryl Dixon is for a long time. Far longer than Bethy has even known he existed. Longer than she's been alive. Hershel is not so naïve to think that Daryl's painful childhood defines him—Hershel would be a hypocrite of the highest order if he did—but Daryl is not like Hershel. He did not have the responsibility of a business thrust onto his shoulders when he was only half a man. He did not have Otis and then Patricia, Maggie's mother, Annette. He spent over three decades drifting, following his brother into dark deeds, committing his own.

And now Hershel is obliged to call him his son-in-law.

Not by law or by God, thank the lord. He knows enough to know that if Beth were to become Mrs. anything, it would be Mrs. Grimes. That is the name on Annie's birth certificate, after all. In the eyes of all but those in the know, Beth and Rick are a couple, living with a ne'er do well who leeches off their kindness. There are only a few who know that the couch is rarely used for sleeping on; that the three share a single double bed, committing all manner of sins between those sheets.

He thinks of Daryl and Rick sinning with each other; he does not allow Bethy into that vision. In his mind she is only complicit. A victim in their depravity.

He knows that is not true. Annie herself is proof of that.

But he is a father. It is his prerogative to remain blind.

He nearly wishes he were blind now, watching how Daryl tracks her movements. Like a beast on the hunt, his beady eyes locked on the less appropriate aspects of her form. The TV is on—some trash show like all the shows this man seems to like, filled with yelling men covered in filth—but Daryl pays it no attention; prefers to focus on Hershel's youngest daughter, barely a college girl when he met her, when he and his accomplice led her into sin.

Even now, four years later, she is still an angel, still goodhearted and kind and sweet—and with such a face that she gets carded for even glancing at a six-pack. Such a face that would normally belong on the back of a milk carton, were she to associate with a man like Daryl.

But instead they share a bed. They share a life. And Hershel has done enough soul searching, has seen enough of Beth around the man, to grudgingly accept that neither of those things is likely to change any time soon.

“Son of a cracker, Daryl, have you seen my ID—“

Daryl smirks, stretching himself out even farther, relaxing his thick neck. “Did'ja check your pocket?”

“Of course I...” Beth trails off, hand pressed to the front of her scrubs. She pulls out her laminated ID, blinking at it for a moment before glaring at a smug Daryl. “Don't say a dang thing.”

He shrugs, settling deeper into his recline. “Weren't planning to.”

“Asshole,” Beth mutters. She glances guiltily at Hershel—but not as guilty as she might have once. “Sorry, Daddy.”

Hershel nods in acknowledgement, trying not to scowl as Daryl snickers.

Satisfied that she has everything, Beth drops onto the edge of the couch, back brushing Daryl's chest casually as she leans down to tie her sneakers. At first he merely stares with half-lidded eyes at the curve of her spine, cheek resting on his knuckle as his eyes run up and down her back unashamedly. He must have forgotten Hershel standing in the corner, or else has simply decided not to care; when Beth sits up with a satisfied huff, Daryl curls his arm around her. She squeaks as he yanks her back.

“Daryl!” she says, a moment of indignation that bubbles into giggles before settling between them into something mellow, far more intimate than Hershel feels comfortable viewing. Daryl's hold on Beth's stomach tightens as he sits up slightly—and god, it makes Hershel sick to see that limb wrapped around his daughter; it reminds him too much of a cage; makes him note the power in that arm, imagine the harm it could do—tugging her into him so he can rest his chin on her shoulder, press a fleeting kiss to her neck.

Completely devoid of Hershel's anxiety, Beth relaxes back into him like a reed bending in the breeze, turning her head so he can kiss her cheek, the edge of her mouth. Her hands rest on his arm—not in preparation to defend herself, but to feel, to touch; Daryl nuzzles his scruff against her neck and she rubs her hands up and down his arm, squeezing the muscle of his bicep when she reaches it.

Daryl drops his forehead to rest against Beth's shoulder, sighing deeply. Beth lets out a little laugh—far too breathy, Hershel thinks, far too breathy—twisting her head back in an attempt to see her lover.

“What?” she asks.

“Don't want you to go,” he mumbles, barely loud enough for Hershel to hear. He knows he is excluded from this conversation; they seem to have completely forgotten he is there.

“It's only 24 hours,” Beth says, affection lacing her voice so deeply that Hershel shifts in discomfort. “Then I'll be home, and Rick'll be home after he's done with that dumb deposition in DC, and you won't get _any_ peace and quiet after that.”

“I'm counting on it,” Daryl growls, and Hershel nearly leaves the room because Daryl has taken Hershel's daughter's flesh between his teeth, shaking his head as she giggles. “Soon as you're rested up, you're ours, girl.”

“I'll clear my calendar,” she says.

Then she glances Hershel's way, and seems to at last remember that they aren't alone; she pulls herself slowly from Daryl's grasp, turning to kiss him lightly on the lips before standing and grabbing her bag, slinging it over one shoulder. Daryl stands as Beth tugs her ponytail out from under the strap.

She turns to Hershel and smiles, walking forward to hug him tightly around the middle. It is still awkward for Hershel to hold his daughter, knowing all she's done—but it's such a relief, after so long estranged, to at least try.

“Thank you so much for doing this, Daddy,” she says, squeezing him tightly before pulling back to smile up at him. “You'll make it so much easier on Daryl. And Annie's been wanting time with her favorite grandpa.”

Despite his disquiet, Hershel feels himself melting, as he always does, beneath Bethy's smile. “And I've been wanting time with my favorite granddaughter.” He pats Beth on the shoulder. “Don't you let them overwork you today. Drink water, eat, take breaks. Your health is the most important thing.”

Beth smiles cheekily. “If I'm gonna be a nurse, I'd think that would be _other_ people's health.”

“Not for me,” Hershel says quietly.

Beth's smile softens at Hershel's serious tone. She knows it for the apology it is.

“Alright, Daddy.” She stretches onto her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek, then steps around him towards the door. Before Hershel can even turn Daryl is following her. He is silent on his socked feet, but Beth seems to feel him coming, spinning around in the open doorway just in time for him to tug her in for a deep kiss. Hershel looks away, tapping his foot; when Beth begins moaning he clears his throat pointedly. He looks up to see her glancing at him guiltily, but it doesn't last for long; the next moment she's facing Daryl, tilting her head up to look at him much like she'd looked at Hershel.

But she is not giving him the same expression, not nearly. There is nothing to his Bethy that isn't genuine—but there is a depth of honesty to her look with Daryl that Hershel has never seen directed at himself. It makes him think of his favorite time of day—relaxing after long hours of work, settling into his armchair with a good book, smelling the scents of home and listening to the creaks of the old house. Here, Daryl's eyes are the chair, his arms the house; his chest Beth's home as she presses her face into the skin above his collar, inhaling deeply. Daryl's hands move up and down her back as they hold each other; and as she presses her lips to his chest his find her forehead, lingering long past when Hershel would have expected him to let go.

At long last, of course, he does. Hershel lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding as those powerful arms fall away from Beth's body.

“You say goodbye to Annie for me, alright?” Beth says. “I don't want to wake her.”

“A'right.” Daryl reaches forward to tuck a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. She tilts her head to help him. Her eyes sparkle. “Love you,” he murmurs.

“Love you too,” says Beth. She shoots a smile at Hershel, then one more at Daryl—one that lingers, tugging him in like a boat on a chain—before she turns and pads away down the hall.

Daryl shuts the door, and his whole aspect shifts. He turns around and his shoulders are hunched, his stance defensive. His eyes dart into Hershel's gaze and away from it. He looks at the ground, chewing on his lip.

It gives Hershel some sadistic, unholy pleasure to see this man so scared. After sneaking around with his daughter for three years, begetting a child from her (or not—Hershel tries not to think about _that_ ), living in sin with her and another man—it's the _least_ Daryl Dixon can do to appease him.

Hershel is careful not to let any of it show on his face, however; and by the time Daryl musters the courage to meet his eyes, Hershel's expression is appropriately neutral.

The man is perceptive enough; Hershel wouldn't be surprised if he isn't fooled for a minute.

“Thinking of taking her to the park. Nice enough day,” Daryl says, raising a hand to chew on his thumb. “What d'ya think?”

Hershel shrugs, crossing his arms. “ _You're_ her father. Things like that are your call.”

Daryl flushes under the barely-veiled threat—that just as it's his call, it's his responsibility, and Hershel rests that weight solely on the Dixon's shoulders—but confines himself to a shrug, a jerky, broken version of Hershel's own.

“Well. A'right. You can come or not.”

“I'll come,” Hershel says immediately. “Spend time with my granddaughter.”

“Yeah,” Daryl mumbles. He stands still for another moment, then moves abruptly, heading into the bedroom and closing the door. Hershel feels a spike of anxiety, knowing a Dixon is alone with his blood. With a defenseless baby, no less, which makes it so much worse than when it is just Beth; no matter how under his thrall she is, she's still a down-home farm-girl at heart, and Hershel hopes he's raised her well enough that she knows when to fight back. Even against someone who enchants her as much as Daryl seems to.

Knowing there is nothing he can do short of bursting through the door, Hershel forces himself to relax; does one of the breathing exercises he learned in AA. Within a few moments he is calm enough to settle onto the sofa, clicking pointedly to PBS.

 _Call the Midwife_ is just ending when Daryl emerges. He's changed from his ratty old wife beater into an equally ratty sleeveless flannel. Annie, at least, is better dressed; held in his arms in a light, summery combo of yellow tank-top and capris.

Hershel is captured for a moment by how beautiful she is: big blue eyes, golden tufts of hair growing across her scalp, plump pink cheeks. He knows every grandfather thinks they have the perfect grandchild, but Hershel really believes it—despite the father, or fathers, she has.

No matter her parentage, little Annie Greene is perfect.

“Ya mind opening her stroller?” Daryl asks, barely meeting Hershel's eyes as he walks to the kitchen. As he passes, Hershel catches a strong whiff of sunscreen, and notes the shimmery layer on Annie's skin. Despite himself, he's impressed.

He keeps one eye on Daryl as he readies the stroller. Daryl balances Annie in one arm as he reaches into the cabinet, pulling down a carton of goldfish. When Annie sees it, she immediately begins to squeal, pumping her little arms up and down. Daryl shakes her lightly, chuckling deep in his chest.

“Simmer down, girl, ya had your breakfast.”

Annie makes a noise in protest, straining towards the goldfish as Daryl pours them into a travel bowl. He resists her movements, keeping her balanced with ease as he prepares her snack with one hand. One of her flailing arms smacks Daryl in the neck, hard enough that he jumps, and the breath catches in Hershel's throat—but instead of the violence he expects, Daryl just jostles the baby again, leaning away as she grabs for his hair.

“Little menace,” he grumbles, shaking his head and making her giggle as the long strands tickle her cheeks.

Grabbing the travel bowl, Daryl brings Annie to the stroller Hershel's prepared, strapping her in efficiently and raising the sun-guard. He goes to the head of the stroller and looks at Hershel, like he's waiting for instruction.

Hershel tilts his head towards the door, lifts and eyebrow. “After you.”

Daryl stares at him a moment; then grunts, and goes.

Hershel watches the man: broad shoulders, strong back, jaunty stride. From this angle, he can't even see the carriage.

Hershel follows and locks the door behind him.

* * *

Despite his lack of sleeves, Daryl's forehead is shining with sweat by the time they reach the park. Hershel isn't faring much better, especially in his layered shirts, but he isn't going to mention it. Not in a million years.

It feels so incredibly _odd_ , walking with Daryl. Not just because of the camaraderie it suggests, but the sense he gets of walking in his shoes.

Everyone they pass gives him a double look. Every single one. Hershel is not surprised; he finds himself glancing at Daryl twice, after seeing the incongruity of the image he makes. A rough man, a big man, tattoos standing proudly on his arms, hair shaggy and dangling in his face, eyes slim and cut and mean—pushing a baby dressed in yellow, her fist in her mouth as she peers at the world around her.

There are two looks, besides shock. There is lust, from some. Hershel knows how to recognize the bitten lips and rounded eyes, even on strangers, and it unsettles him to see his daughter's man so desired. He might not like the Dixon; but after it all, he'd rather not see him run off with someone else and leave Bethy with a broken heart.

But Daryl doesn't seem to see those looks, nor the other, far more common: fear, putrid and stinking, sliding into anger as they sight the innocent baby in his clutches. Maybe they think he's kidnapped her; maybe they, like Hershel, fear his dirty hands near her tiny throat.

It makes Hershel uncomfortable, seeing those stares. Not because he thinks Daryl ought not to be feared; but because it feels strangely like looking in the mirror. And those twisted visages are not what he expected to see looking back.

They walk for about ten more minutes through the park before Daryl finds an acceptable stop: a bench overlooking the pond. He parks Annie's stroller beside the bench, so when he sits down they are side by side. She clutches the safety bar of the stroller, watching Daryl carefully as he pulls out the travel bowl and plops it in her lap.

This is clearly a routine for her, for she wastes no time sticking her hand through the opening and pulling out a fistful of crackers, shoving them wholesale in her mouth. Daryl snorts at the orange goo of half-chewed goldfish that dribbles down her chin. Daryl cleans her off with his finger. He scoffs when she instantly begins to ooze more.

“Dumbass,” he says, and Hershel tenses at the language even as he frowns at the tender tone it is delivered in. Daryl wipes his hand on his jeans and sits back, seeming content to ignore the mess the child is making, even as it stains her pretty yellow shirt.

“Does Bethy do the laundry for you all?” Hershel asks, watching as the orange begins to seep into the fabric.

Daryl looks at him, mouth hard and defensive again. “We all do it,” he says.

“Hmm.” Hershel leans back, surveying the pond. “You really ought to feed her fruit. Lord knows what those chemicals are doing to her stomach.”

“That ain't–“

Hershel looks at Daryl, and finds the man glaring out at the water, fists clenched, jaw working behind his zipped mouth. Hershel looks past Daryl to Annie, and wonders suddenly if it was such a good idea to get the man riled up.

“You have something to say to me, son, you say it,” Hershel says, in as gentle a tone as he can manage.

It must not be gentle enough, for when Daryl turns to him he has murder in his eyes. “You wanna feed your kids fruit of the goddamn loom, be my guest; we ain't got the money for it.”

“I offered—“

“I know what you offered, _sir_ ,” Daryl spits. Hershel can tell the man is furious, and finds himself mildly impressed at how well Daryl is holding it in. “I ain't selling you my kid for some fucking spending money. Rick ain't either.”

“It's hardly selling—“

“Ain't like Rick n' me'd be all that welcome on the farm, huh? Annie and Beth living with you means they won't be with us no more. We ain't doing that. So we'll feed our daughter all the motherfucking goldfish she _wants_. And I don't wanna hear no more—“

Daryl freezes, then gets up and leans over Annie's stroller. Without Daryl in the way, Hershel can hear the whimpering that interrupted his tirade. He sees her clutching the empty goldfish container, looking at her father with big watery eyes.

“It's alright, girl, c'mon, cut that out,” Daryl says, taking the bowl and stuffing a pacifier in her mouth before she can begin to wail. He waits, fingers twitching, as she continues to whimper; then lets his breath out in one big gust as she calms herself, dropping back in her seat and sucking the pacifier.

Daryl meets Hershel's eyes, and he doesn't look angry anymore. He just looks tired.

“C'mon,” he says. “Let's pick up pizza or something and go home. That ok with you?”

Hershel looks at him steadily—his slumped posture, his hand on the stroller, the glances he throws Annie, as if to check on her, as he waits for Hershel's answer—and nods.

“Pizza would be nice,” he says.

Daryl nods, and together they exit the park, walking no closer to each other than when they entered it.

* * *

Hershel wakes and has no idea where he is.

It takes several moments of gasping to remember—he's at Bethy's apartment. She's on a 24-hour shift and he'd volunteered to help Daryl with Annie until she returns. He's in their bedroom, in their small double bed, while Daryl takes the couch. The piercing sound like an air raid siren that woke him is Annie screaming from her crib in the corner.

He's still getting reoriented when the door swings open and he turns with a start. Daryl doesn't even glance at Hershel as he hurries to the crib, lit from behind by the glow of the TV in the living room.

Hershel watches, blinking through the dim, as Daryl bends down and lifts the baby easily, shushing quietly and holding her to his shoulder as she continues to cry.

“Hey there, Li'l Bean, c'mon,” Daryl says, his voice a rumble in the dark room. “Yeah, you're ok, you're fine.” He keeps making small nonsense noises as Annie begins to calm; she's down to whimpers when Daryl shifts her from his shoulder to, Hershel assumes, lower her into her crib and return to his television program.

He doesn't do that, though. Cradling the baby to his chest, he looks down at her. Hershel can the light shining off their locked eyes as Daryl lowers his head and, as if Hershel doesn't exist, begins to sing:

 _Fair and lovely Annie_  
_Your gentle ways have won me_  
_You bring peace and joy and laughter everywhere_  
_Where you go the sunshine follows_  
_You're a breath of spring in winter_  
_and my heart and soul are always in your care_

_Gentle Annie, Gentle Annie  
and my heart and soul are always in your care _

_You're a flower among the flowers_  
_a bird song in the morning_  
_you're the laughter of the children at their play_  
_You're my hope, my joy, my wisdom_  
_You're my reason just for living_  
_you're my treasure_  
_you're my very night and day_

_Gentle Annie, Gentle Annie  
you're my very night and day _

_When the mountains all have tumbled_  
_When the Earth has stopped it's turning_  
_When the winds don't blow and stars refuse to shine_  
_When the moon has left the heavens_  
_When the seven seas are empty_  
_I will still have Gentle Annie on my mind_

_Gentle Annie, Gentle Annie  
I will still have Gentle Annie on my mind _

His voice, Hershel knows, is objectively atrocious—atonal, with very little melody, a butchering of whatever the original song must be.

It does not stop the tears from tracking down his cheeks.

When Daryl doesn't move for several minutes after laying a now-sleeping Annie back down, Hershel gets up to join him. Daryl acknowledges him only with a cut of his eyes.

They stand together in silence, watching the little girl breathe. As they watch, she raises a thumb to her mouth, takes it in with a sigh. Daryl leans forward to push a lock of hair off her forehead, causing her to murmur in her sleep.

“I could have gotten her,” Hershel says, pitching his voice low.

“You were sleeping,” Daryl says, finger lingering on Annie's cheek before he pulls away.

“Still. I feel like I haven't done much helping.”

Daryl looks at him silently for several long moments, then snorts.

“I know,” he says. “Beth didn't ask you here to help.”

Hershel frowns. “She said—“

“She wanted us to spend time together,” Daryl says. Each word sounds like he's having them pulled from his mouth like teeth. “Thought we ought'a get along. Considering we're family and all.”

“She could have just told me that,” Hershel grumbles, looking at his granddaughter.

“You'd'a come? If she did?”

Hershel looks at Daryl. The man's eyebrows are raised, as if he knows the answer. Hershel realizes that he does.

“No,” he says, chuckling. “I suppose I wouldn't have.” He shakes his head. “Plays me like a fiddle, that girl.”

“Plays all of us,” Daryl says. His tone doesn't match the words, though. He does not sound put-upon. He sounds fond.

He sounds in love.

Hershel clears his throat softly. “That was a beautiful song.”

Daryl shuffles on his feet, and Hershel is shocked to see his cheeks darken. “Beth and Rick usually sing to her,” Daryl mumbles. “Can't get her to sleep otherwise.”

“Well. It was beautiful.”

“Thanks.”

They are quiet for several more moments, staring at the sleeping child. Hershel feels more tears threaten to rise to his eyes, and he clears his throat again.

“I love my children more than anything,” Hershel says. Daryl isn't looking at him, but he knows he's listening. “And that includes Annie. I would die ten times over to protect any of them. Do you understand that?”

It takes Daryl several moments to answer. He doesn't look away from Annie when he does.

“I do.”

“Then you know why—“

Daryl snorts, cutting him off. Hershel looks at him, eyebrows raised. The man doesn't even look embarrassed.

“I know why you hate me,” Daryl says. “Hell, you should. Man like me, being with your daughter like that. With your granddaughter like this. Ain't no universe where that's right.”

Hershel frowns. “So why do you—“

“Cause I love 'em more than anything too.” Daryl's eyes are just as cutting, but in the dark they are somehow bigger, softer. More beseeching. “You ain't wrong about most things about me. I don't got a rap sheet, but I should. I weren't a good man before I met Rick and Beth.” Daryl swallows, looking at the baby. “But I met them. And this happened. I know I don't deserve it, none of it. But Beth and Rick think I do. And I'm a selfish fucker, anyway.” His eyes burn like coals in the darkness. “I know she's yours nearly as much as she's mine. But that nearly matters, a'right? This is my _daughter_ . Beth's the only one who can change that. Not you.”

Hershel doesn't think he's ever heard the man string together so many words at once, and he isn't ashamed to let that admiration come through in his expression. Daryl seems to be made uncomfortable by it, though, shifting on his feet and looking at the child.

His child.

“You're right,” Hershel says. Daryl looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “You're right.” They watch each other for several moments, then Hershel sighs, rubbing his forehead. “I'll take care of it if she wakes up again,” he says. “You get some sleep.”

Daryl studies him for a long moment. Hershel expects he's trying to figure out if this is some kind of test. A few minutes ago, it might have been.

Daryl seems to read the shift, though, for he nods to himself and shrugs.

“Suit yourself,” he says.

He turns to go, and Hershel steps up to the crib to look down at Annie. She still has her thumb in her mouth, and is sucking contentedly. Hershel remembers his own children doing that—Shawn's thumb was practically attached to his lips until he was five. Beth was never a thumb-sucker, though, and neither was she a crier; she found other ways to make herself content.

“Hey, Hershel?”

Hershel turns. Daryl is in the doorway chewing his own thumb, seems to be working himself up to saying something. Hershel remembers when he himself had been like that; slow to speak, measured with his words—until he was angered, of course. Then there was no stopping him.

He looks at Daryl, and wonders what he will be like when he is Hershel's own age. How a lifetime with Rick and Annie and Beth will change him.

And the shame Hershel feels is bone deep, for he realizes he is looking at himself.

“Yes?” he says.

“She loves you too. Beth.” Daryl looks at his feet, peeks at Hershel through his bangs. “It's the only real reason she thought about aborting. Thinking of you hating her.”

“I never hated her,” Hershel says.

Daryl shrugs, letting his hand drop. “Maybe you ought'a remind her sometime.” He looks past Hershel to the crib, then back to Hershel again. “Night, Hershel.”

Hershel nods, throat thick. “Goodnight, Daryl.”

Daryl nods once, and exits back to the living room, closing the door behind him.

Hershel remains standing by the crib for a long time, looking at his sleeping granddaughter. Seeing his Beth in her. Seeing her fathers. Seeing himself.

He falls asleep to Daryl singing “Gentle Annie” in his dreams. 

* * *

Hershel's yawn lasts straight through the red light and halfway through the green one, ending only when the furious honks from behind him filter through his popping ears.

He knows he offered to get up for Annie as a show of good faith, and he suspects that Daryl took it that way—but in the light of day, he can't help thinking it was something of a mistake. It's been over twenty years since he had to care for an infant, after all; and he isn't as young as he used to be.

Nevertheless, he feels capable of at least getting himself home; and he doesn't even swerve when his cell goes off, glancing at it before putting it on speakerphone.

“Hello, Bethy,” he says. “You off work?”

“Yeah, fin–“ Hershel smiles as Beth breaks into a yawn of her own. “Yeah, _finally_ ; Jiminy Crispies, I'm tired.”

“Do you have another one of these shifts soon?”

“Not for a while. And I have a four day weekend now, so I can't complain.” She's quiet for a moment. Hershel can hear the radio playing softly in the background. He suspects she's driving too. “How'd it go, then? Y'all have a good time?”

“You talk to Rick and Daryl yet?”

“Just Rick, when he landed. He sounded tired too. I'm thinking of asking you to stay a few more days while we recuperate!” Beth giggles to herself for a moment, before quieting. “He got home alright, then?”

“Yes, he seemed fine.”

“Good,” Beth is quiet for a moment. Hershel identifies Faith Hill as the music playing in her car. “So. You gonna answer my question or not? How'd it go?”

Hershel doesn't answer right away. He looks out the windshield instead; sees the farm approaching; knows that it's home, that he's happy there—but it's empty. His is all it is.

And he thinks of Beth's apartment; thinks of the scene when Rick came home. Daryl's glance towards Hershel before he walked forward and kissed Rick on the lips; Rick taking Annie from Daryl's hold to kiss her, hold her, bury his face in her fresh baby scent. Daryl didn't go far; stayed standing with his hand on Rick's shoulder, a small smile playing on his face as Annie cooed between them.

And Hershel thinks of that bed. He thinks of the three of them in it—not sinning, but holding each other, like he did with Maggie's mother, with Annette, after long days and hard nights. Thinks of Rick and Daryl squinting through reading glasses while Beth teases and calls them old; thinks of cold feet and warm arms. Thinks of Annie in there with them, surrounded by three beings looking on her in adoration, instead of two. Thinks of all the love made in that room.

Wonders what kind of God would reject that.

Wonders what kind of man would want to.

“Daddy?”

Hershel takes a deep breath as he pulls into the driveway, shifts out of gear. He feels the breeze play through the open window. Listens to the birds chirp. Thinks of Daryl's voice, as he sang to his child in the dark.

His child.

His daughter.

His.

“You have two fine men there, Beth. Very fine men.” Hershel waits through her stunned pause. “I am so incredibly proud of you, Bethy,” he says. “And I love you very much. You and Annie both.”

“Daddy, you're gonna make me crash,” Beth says, throat thick with tears. She's laughing, though. His little girl is laughing. “I just. Thanks, Daddy. Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Hershel says quietly. “For sharing your family with me.”

Beth draws in a deep, shaky breath. Hershel listens to her get herself under control, and wonders if perhaps he might have waited to say these things when she hasn't been awake over 24 hours.

“Are you alright, Beth?”

“Yeah, Daddy. Yeah.” Beth sniffs, and laughs again. “I'm just happy. Daddy, I'm so happy.”

Hershel smiles, tilting his head back. He listens to the birds. He closes his eyes.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.”

 


End file.
